The Younger Son
by emmiemac
Summary: Sandor as a boy: shunned and sullen, he nevertheless tries to make up for his brother's careless brutality towards a local girl. Profanity and violence. OFC/canon background.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

The Younger Son

The lands southeast of Lannisport were verdant with grass and rough and uneven with hills and mountains. The terrain was poor for tilling but served well for grazing sheep, which Beth's family had done for as far back as anyone could remember. Most families worked the same land or the same trade from generation to generation, unless some young man could prove himself able enough to their masters to be taken on as a squire or soldier. Their master Clegane kept a small retinue of soldiers and a maester at arms but most promising lads preferred to win a place with their Overlords, the Lannisters, who were Wardens of the West. The Cleganes had not long been created landed knights: the current master's father had saved Lord Tytos from a lioness , losing three of his dogs in the effort and was rewarded with the keep and tower house and all its lands. Though still derided by some as merely elevated kennel-keepers, the commons largely though of Clegane as a decent and fair master and attributed his taciturn manner to being unaccustomed to his station.

The master had two sons; his only daughter had died young though no one quite knew the circumstances. The elder son was a squire but was believed destined for knighthood for even at a young age he was bigger than any man that anyone could remember seeing and he was well trained at arms and reputedly knew no fear. The smallfolk said he was a veritable mountain of a man and soon he came to be called that very name. The younger son was not yet a man but was also a big boy and strong though he was not often seen and so few could say for certain; they spoke of him in hushed tones, a monster, some said: his young face gruesomely disfigured by scars from a fire. Fire was the punishment of the gods, the suffering of the seven hells, and disfigurement was a sign of their displeasure. The boy must be marked for misery they said, and warned their children to stay away if they saw him.

All this was known in the village and the crofts and mills that encircled Cleganes Keep, from which flew the family's banner of three black dogs on an autumn yellow field. They were vassals pledged to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, the richest lords in Westeros. Lord Tywin had served twenty years in King's Landing as the Hand of the King and was also Warden of the Westerlands. They had wealth, peace and protection and did not fear the winters or raiders from the distant rebellion. No man dared defy Lord Tywin Lannister, not since he had razed Tarbeck Hall and Castamere.

Beth lived in a crofter's cottage with her family. She helped with the cleaning and cooking, tended their few chickens and milked their sole cow. She was old enough to help with shepherding now, and so her father and brother began to take her into the hills some mornings to teach her the work; her father had only one son, so Beth would have to help now that she was older. Then she was send back to the cottage to help her mother. She had played with other children when they were all younger but they all had chores now and worked alongside the adults. Soon boys would start apprenticeships, or become soldiers or work their fathers' pastures or mills. Girls would soon flower and then marry and have children and keep their own homes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when her chores were done and the supper not needed yet, Beth would walk from the cottage to the stream. Where once she had thrown rocks and climbed trees, now she picked wildflowers or sat and listened to birdsong and sometimes wondered when she would flower and be married and to what boy. Sometimes she thought she might like to live in the village but other times she wanted to stay in the hills and woods and quiet. Villages had taverns and smiths and shops and lots of people and there were piles of horse dung and bad smells. Her father, who had once herded sheep all the way to Lannisport, said cities were even worse,

One afternoon, she found a kitten and her parents grudgingly let her keep it, but she was to feed and clean up after it. The kitten was tiny and soft, with little green eyes and grey fur and he mewled and waved his tiny paws and chased the hems of her skirts or any ribbon that she dangled in front of him. She sometimes brought him outside to roll in the grass and sniff at the fresh air and he would wander away but never very far until one day he ran faster than she could catch him and she chased him all the way to the road. She could hear horses approaching and caught him just as a great destrier reared to miss running her down. She rushed to the side of the road and curtsied low, as she had seen women do in the village when Lord Tywin's men passed. A great man swung down off his heaving horse, he was clad in heavy armor and stomped towards her, furiously angry.

"I should have run you down, stupid cunt!" he yelled at her in his deep voice. He loomed over her, blocking out the sun. He was enormous: tall and broad with thick legs and arms and neck. His face was red and his eyes and the muscles in his neck bulged from fury. The Mountain, she realized. Beth was terrified but tried to apologize to him.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I am sorry, I was afraid for my kitten: he's just so small." She held him out to show him.

The great man growled and snatched her kitten away. Glowering at her, he squeezed it tightly and it gave a sharp tiny cry before spitting up blood. Beth heard the little bones crunch and gasped. Then the man turned and slammed the kitten's lifeless corpse into a tree trunk with tremendous force, breaking open its skull and leaving a bloody clotted stain on the tree bark. She stifled a scream and covered her face with her hands and then felt something warm and wet land on her bare feet. The man had tossed her kitten back to her.

"Stay out of my road, little bitch, or I'll do the same to you!" he roared as he mounted up. His men had remained silent and followed him now as he spurred his horse and rode off at a gallop.

Beth stood by the roadside, stunned and shaking and trying to catch her breath. When it finally came it was in gusty sobs as she looked down at the horrible little mass of bloody fur and guts and brains. She wrapped it in her apron and carried it crying back to the cottage where her father and brother had just returned. When she told then what has happened, they exchanged grim looks and told her never to speak of it. Then her father sent her with her brother to dig a hole and bury her kitten. Beth was desolate and ate no supper and went to bed teary-eyed and sniffling.

Two days passed and still she did not go to the stream or near the road. She worked hard and silently mourned her kitten and struggled with trying to understand why the man had killed it, why he was so mean and angry. On the third day when she returned to the cottage from the hills, there was a woven basket sitting outside the door.

"Mama," she called. Her mother set something down with a bang and came to the door.

"What is it, child?"

Beth pointed to the basket. "Is it washing?"

Her mother looked at it, clearly not knowing what it was or where it had come from. She bent and pulled at a length of white linen and then jumped back. "There's something in there."

Beth kneeled and peeked under the cloth that her mother had let fall back into the basket. Inside she saw a black kitten staring out with golden eyes.

"Oh! Is it for me?" she cried and lifted it from the basket. It had tiny white paws and dug its claws into her dress when she held it to her throat. It felt soft and warm against her chin.

Her mother bent again for the cloth and held up an apron, fine linen and finished with fancy stitching. She gathered it all up quickly. "Come inside," she said darkly, and looked around before closing the door shut.

Her mother told her father as soon as he returned. He looked at her sharply. "You were to tell no one, girl; we cannot be known to speak ill of the master's family; not over a bloody kitten."

Beth shook her head. "But I didn't tell, Papa; I haven't even _seen_ anyone since then."

They knew she was telling the truth but were still wary. Days passed and Beth went again to the stream, taking her kitten in its basket and playing in the grass. It jumped at her skirts and batted its paws at her hem when she swayed and moved. Finally it sunk its claws in her apron and tried to climb her. She giggled delightedly. Then she heard the branch snap. Startled, she picked up her kitten and held it to her tightly.

"Who's there?" she called, her voice shaking. She looked around and felt someone was there watching her. "Please, you're scaring me," she said when no one answered.

"Don't be scared," a scratchy voice answered. "I just wanted to see if you liked him."

Beth turned and thought she saw a dark sliver of someone behind a tree. "Who are you? Why are you hiding?"

"You don't want to look at me," the voice mumbled.

"But…I want to thank you," she told the voice as she moved closer to the tree. "Why did you leave him in the basket?"

"I saw what my brother did. He's mean. I'm sorry."

His brother, she thought: the burned boy. She knew he was about her age but she had never seen him before. They said he was horrible to look at but he had done something kind for her so she had to thank him.

"That was kind of you." She edged closer and looked around the tree. He stepped back and turned away as he saw her.

He was tall and sullen-looking and stared at the ground. "Leave me be," he muttered sourly.

"My lord, you're the younger son," she said.

"We're not lords," he spat the words out.

She saw his face then and gasped. He had dreadful burns on the side of his face: all red and black and shriveled from his jaw to his past where his ear should have been. His dark hair was brushed over the burns on his head. The livid red skin made him look angry. He was angry now.

"_I told you not to look at me_!" he raged and jerked his head away again.

"I-I'm sorry, but… it looks like it must hurt; do you feel pain?" He talked like it hurt to open his mouth and his voice sounded like he hardly used it: all scratchy and hoarse.

"I don't feel anything," he muttered darkly. He glanced back at her, trying to keep his burns hidden from her. The kitten was batting at her hand now and trying to nip her fingers. "You like him then?"

"I love him," she smiled tremulously. "You are thoughtful to give him to me. Will you tell me what to call you, so I can thank you?"

He had been staring at the ground and so glanced sharply at her again. "Sandor," he mumbled.

"Thank you for my gift, Sandor. I like it very much," she said with her best manners.

He grunted faintly and kept looking down.

"I'm called Beth," she told him.

"Beth," he repeated, then kicked a rock at his feet. "You're pretty," he muttered shortly and walked away without looking back at her. A moment later she heard a horse nicker and snort, and then the sound of hoof beats on the road.

"Oh, kitten," she whispered, putting her head down to brush her cheek on its soft head. "Poor Sandor."


	2. Chapter 2

For days, Beth returned to the stream, with and without her kitten. She thought the boy Sandor might come back but he never did. Like his brother, she did not understand his behavior: he seemed angry, but he did kind things; or at least one kind thing for her. And he called her pretty, though he did not sound very happy about it: he said it like an accusation, almost as if she were being pretty _at _him. She remembered how people said to stay away from him; maybe he did not know how to talk to people. She wondered why he did not have a tutor or even a mother to teach him.

She went to the hills shepherding with her father. He wanted more sheep, he said, and so they needed to be watched. She would flower soon, he told her sternly, and would need a good dowry to marry, since the cottage would pass to her older brother. Once she was married, he could take a wife; preferably a good stout worker and fertile. He looked her over when he said this; she knew she was slim-hipped but maybe she would grow bigger. Her mother was slight and had given him two children but perhaps he had wanted more sons. Every man wants sons, she thought, and she wondered about the Cleganes again: three black dogs on a field and three dark, solemn men in a keep.

One cloudy afternoon, Beth climbed to the highest hill to look down on the flock. From her seat on a rocky ledge she could see as far as the road to the village and keep. She watched to see if Sandor rode out, and nibbled a biscuit she had pocketed when she left the cottage. Her own family took the same road when herding the sheep to be shorn; they always came back with coin, a heard of bald sheep and a bag of wool for her to spin. Kitten, now grown bigger, would probably bat his paws at the thread and crouch near her stool waiting for the spindle to fall so he could chase it. She smiled to herself and swung her feet as she watched the sheep.

"Shouldn't you have a staff?" came a scratchy voice behind her.

Beth jumped and turned, startled but not frightened. Sandor was jumping from one rocky ledge to the other towards her, all lean, gangly legs and arms springing, but he stopped short of sharing the same rock. He sat with his back to the flock, with his burns mostly hidden from her. She looked at him but didn't stare.

"How did you come here?" she asked. He could not have brought his horse this high up, not without being seen.

"Climbed," he answered shortly. "I know all these hills and woods," he bragged, sweeping his arm open, "they're my father's. I could hide and live here and no one would ever find me."

"I found you," she noted.

"No," he scoffed, "I found you. You were busy watching sheep eat grass. Dumb animals," he sneered. "When people listen to others and do what they say, they call them sheep. No one tells me what to do."

"Don't you like animals?" she asked. "You have a horse, and you gave me a kitten."

"My horse is a courser, brown and black, and has his own armor. Cats are for mousing, and for girls. I like dogs best: they don't care what you look like; if you treat them nice they're happy to see you, they're loyal and would even die for you."

"Do you have a dog?"

He scoffed again. "We have a whole kennel of dogs: we used to be kennel-masters at the Rock."

She nodded. "I know; I meant do you have your own dog?"

He scowled and glanced at her. "No; my brother's mean to them. Most are afraid to come into the keep. If I had a dog of my own…well, you saw what he does when you like something." He whipped a rock as he reminded her, his brow furrowed in anger, or hurt.

"Oh," she said, crestfallen. She recalled how frightened she was of the Mountain, and she thought how it must be to live with him all the time. "I'm sorry, Sandor. You should have your own dog, if you want one."

He grunted dismissively and looked around. "Is your family nice?" He had a hoarse, flat way of talking.

"Yes," she told him, "Mama and Papa are strict, of course, there is so much work and only my brother and me; but we are safe here and not too poor. My father wants more sheep for my dowry, and when I'm married then my brother can marry too. There's no room for another person now."

"Who are you going to marry?" he asked. "Some dumb shepherd? They fuck sheep: everyone knows that."

"No they don't! Don't talk like that!" she cried. "Don't be like that, Sandor, please."

"You're going to marry a sheep-fucker," he snarled nastily. "You can sit and watch his sheep all day and then he'll leave your bed at night to go fuck them instead of you. Baaahhhh…."

"And you'll marry a dog-faced bitch who eats your scraps off the floor!" She hurled back, angry. She shifted her bottom now so she could jump down off the rocky ledge and leave him there, the mean, burned-faced boy who talked filth to her.

He leaned over and grabbed her arm.

"Let me go!" she cried.

"If you jump down your dress will fly up and I'll see your bum. Do you want me to tell all the boys in the village I saw Beth's bum?"

She tried to free her arm but he was strong. "Filthy mouth," she sputtered as she struggled. "You're mean." And boys in the village didn't talk to him; she knew that but could not bring herself to tell him so.

"I'm not mean; Gregor's mean." He sounded defensive and let her go suddenly. "I was just joking, anyway."

"It's not funny," she pouted.

"Fine, it's not funny then; so who are you going to marry?" he persisted.

"I don't know; I'm not even betrothed yet." She still felt sullen towards him.

"Why not?" Sometimes his voice sounded like a growl.

"I'm not old enough yet," she replied.

"You mean you don't bleed yet," he told her with scornful impatience.

"Sandor! That's enough talk!" She could feel her face flush. Boys weren't supposed to know about moon blood.

His face grew angry again. "Why can't you just tell the truth? Why does everyone pretend some things don't happen? It's like lying: I _hate _lying! People die! Girls bleed! Sheep are dumb!" He scrambled to his feet, and began whipping rocks down the hill. "_Don't_. _Lie_. _To_. _Me_." He grunted with every throw, heaving and panting, and then suddenly sat back down hard and dropped his head onto his arm that lay across his knees. His shoulders were shaking and she thought with frightened amazement that he must be crying. But then he raised his head, dry-eyed and gazed emptily across the valley below them. "Just don't lie to me, Beth," he said quietly now, his voice more hoarse than usual. "Please don't lie to me."

"I-I won't, Sandor. I promise." She almost whispered; she was overwhelmed by his outburst and this request, which seemed almost reverential. He wanted to trust her; it made her feel grown-up and important, like her words mattered to someone. "I won't lie to you."

He nodded absently now, like it didn't matter anymore. "You really should have a staff," he told her now, "even a dagger or sword. There are wild animals up in the mountains: they eat sheep…and girls. That's not mean, it's just the truth."

He stood and left, as soundlessly and abruptly as he had come.

Beth heard her brother calling soon after, and she jumped down off the ledge, mindful of her skirt flying up, and went to help her mother.


	3. Chapter 3

Beth reached into the washing basket and put another pair of her brother's breeches on the hempen line that stretched between posts in the yard, he never gave them to their mother to wash until they were all dirty. She clamped them down with whittled pegs and then reached down for another piece of washing. She drew out a large bed sheet which she tossed over the line. She fumbled in her apron pocket for more pegs when suddenly the sheet started to move on the line. She jumped back.

"I'm a ghost of Harrenhal!" He looked over the top of the sheet and made a face at her.

"Sandor, you scared me! Why do you always do that?" Even though he had scared her, she could not help laughing nervously at his trick.

"You scare easy, even for a girl," he scoffed, "and I'm as quick and quiet as a shadowcat."

"How do you know? I bet you've never seen a shadowcat," she challenged. She pegged more washing as he ducked under the line and he sneered his twisted half-lip sneer.

"Of course not: shadowcats live beyond the Wall…with the White Walkers," he made another face: he knew she didn't like scary stories, "and in the Vale. But I'm going to hunt one someday. I'll even bring you the pelt to wear in winter."

Beth quieted. "I can't take a gift like that," she told him now, "and you shouldn't be here: my family's in the village." She knew she wasn't a proper lady but still she knew she was not supposed to be alone with boys anymore.

"I know, I saw them; that's why I came," he told her in his hoarse voice. "Let's go somewhere: I know caves where we can hide, and paths up mountains you haven't climbed: I'll bet we can see all the way to Lannisport from the top, maybe even to the Sunset Sea. What do you suppose is beyond the Sunset Sea?"

"Water," she answered shortly, and then she looked down. "I have chores, Sandor: there's the washing and I have to milk the cow and weed the garden and soak the barley for supper, and all before they come back. I can't just leave when I want, not like you can."

His face darkened with anger. "Don't you want to be my friend anymore?" His voice got tighter and scratchier when he was mad.

"We don't have servants like you have at the Keep, Sandor; we have to do things ourselves. I have to do things too."

"So that's what you think? That I sit on my ass on velvet cushions while servants bring me platters of fruit and flagons of wine? Well, I have things to do too, you snotty-smallfolk-maiden, I don't have to come here!"

She blinked at him, trying not to feel hurt. It was better to ignore his insults; he always got so very mad that he said terrible things and then after he would mumble apologies and say he hadn't meant it. "What things do you do?" she asked instead.

He grunted and kicked sullenly at a peg she had dropped when he had scared her. She could tell he wanted to stay mad at her but he also wanted to talk. "I train with swords," he told her finally, "real steel too, not the blunted kind. And I'm good too; I'm very good; the maester-at-arms says so. I can clean and hone a sword as good as any man. I have a dagger too." He reached for his belt and pulled the hilt so show the blade before sliding it back in. "I learn about battle strategy and even history. I bet you don't even know about Harrenhal," he challenged her smugly.

"Is it the castle in the Vale burned by dragons?"

"_Shadowcats_ are in the Vale; Harrenhal is in the _Riverlands_," he corrected her scornfully. "You don't know _anything_, do you?"

"No," she said resignedly. He didn't understand lessons were taught by maesters to well-born boys, never to low-born girls. She saw him pause curiously and narrow his eyes, she usually argued back with him, but he was not about to stop baiting her yet.

"No; I'm going to learn Valarian, like they speak in the Free Cities, and you can speak the common tongue to cows and sheep."

She nodded absently. "I have to milk the cow now." She walked away, dropping the washing basket on the step and picking up her pail and three-legged stool. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "You can come too, if you want to tell me more." Then she crossed to the small enclosure and opened the gate as the cow meandered towards her. She set down her stool and put the pail under her udders.

"Why did it walk to you? I thought you would have to chase it."

"She needs milking," she said simply, and set to her task. Before long he came to watch, she could sense he was there. He had a powerful gaze: even if you didn't see him, you could just _feel_ it. She thought maybe because no one would look at him he could stare as long as he liked; but she was used to it now.

"I know about horses," he began, almost defensive once he saw how competent she could be. "I have a courser that can ride into battle; it even has its own armor with our sigil. I can jump him and fight on horseback and I can even wield a lance. One day, I'll enter the lists in a tourney as a mystery competitor, like Barristan the Bold…he was ten though, and I already turned twelve." He sounded jealous; usually he scorned everything and everyone.

"I'm almost twelve," she told him. "But you're big for twelve and still growing; this Ser Barristan won't get any taller," she teased him. "Do you want to be a knight, Sandor?"

When he didn't answer, she looked up at him. He was staring at the ground and his chest was heaving. She could hear his breath coming loud and fast, like a bull about to charge. She was so startled she stood up from her milking. Sandor turned his head and spat.

"Knights," he sneered, "that's what I think of them and their vows. Do you know where my brother was riding when he killed your kitten? He's going to be _knighted_…by the _Prince_." He was seething with outrage and almost wild with anger. "He's going to pledge to protect women, the young and the innocent; and you're _all_ of those. He's going to be anointed and swear faith to the Seven. Well, piss on that; and on all of them too" he raged.

"Sandor! Don't say piss on the Seven, the gods won't like it," she told him worriedly.

"Well, I don't like them either," he snarled and he bent towards her and pushed his hair back from his face. "What kind of gods do _this_ to anyone?"

It came to her suddenly: "Your brother did it." She said it as soon as she realized it, and then wished she hadn't.

Sandor's eyes grew huge and he rushed at her. She thought he was going to push or even hit her but instead he clamped his hand down over her mouth and shook his head, his expression wild and terrified.

"Don't say it," he whispered hoarsely, "never say it again. He'll _kill_ you if he thinks you know."

From the way he looked into her eyes, Beth knew he meant it. Her tears welled up and his face blurred in front of her. He took his hand away.

"Sorry," he muttered. "But it's important you remember: my bedding caught fire. That's what my father says; that's what I have to say." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Now it's what you have to say, do you understand?" He was quiet and deadly serious and kept his eyes on hers and it scared her more than any of his outbursts or rages ever could.

"But…it's a lie. You hate lying…" she reminded him tearfully. She felt very confused: he would think she really was stupid.

"Do you think your kitten is the worst he's done?" he asked her angrily. "He probably wipes his humongous ass with kittens and puppies before he even breaks fast. If you hadn't shown him your fucking kitten, he would have bashed _your_ head into the tree. He's not just mean, Beth; he's a _kille_r!"

She nodded obediently now, making her tears roll down her cheeks.

"Stop crying," he ordered her, his sneering expression returning, "and don't feel sorry for me; I can take care of myself now. I've been practicing everyday he's been gone. I'll be a better fighter than him soon; he's bigger but I'm quicker and smarter. Besides, my father wanted him to be a buggering knight, maybe he won't be angry all the time now they made him a buggering knight." He didn't sound like he believed it though.

"Sandor…" she whispered, and realized there was nothing she could say: he would never let her. She dried her eyes on her apron instead.

He looked her over now. "Why don't you wear the one I gave you? Don't you like it?" He asked harshly. He meant the apron from the basket.

She sniffled. "Mama says it's too fine for work." It hung on the same peg as her cleanest dress over her sleeping pallet.

"I'm going now," he told her abruptly, "before your family comes back. Forget what you said, and never forget what I said." He looked much older to her now. "Finish your chores," his mouth twitched into a smirk, "maybe we can go climbing someday."

She watched him cross the yard and then the road and then disappear behind some brush and trees on the other side. He never took the road unless he was on horseback and even when he rode he liked to hack across the hills and crofts. When she was in the village she heard people complain that he jumped their fences and scattered their livestock; she knew it wasn't nice even though it was his father's land, but no one was nice to him so she had to look down to keep from smiling. But she didn't feel like smiling now.

The last time Beth had gone to the village, her mother had brushed and braided her hair tightly and told her to wear her clean dress and the fine linen apron then had led her to the door where her father waited. He told her as they turned onto the road that they had business with the sheep shearer. Beth followed and when they arrived, she was invited inside instead of being made to wait on the bench outside like she always did. The sheep shearer's wife had given her weak tea in the back kitchen while her father and the shearer talked in the front room in low voices. The woman smiled and asked about her family, her health and her chores and looked her over with sharp eyes. Her eldest son came in saying he'd forgotten his knife, he greeted Beth and left. Then the younger son came in and said he had left his cap; he nodded to Beth and left. She realized she was being brought forth for marriage: they were not unkind but she still felt a like a sow being vetted in the market. Worse, her father and the shearer were probably haggling over how many sheep she was worth.

Beth knew that marriage was something parents arranged; love was for the singers' ballads, not for smallfolk. She had known both young men for a long time since they sheared her father's sheep and the younger son was of an age with her brother. At one time she would not have objected to either: they were plain but strong and healthy and did not have boils or bad teeth. But at one time she had also not known Sandor; and she could not think of either boy now without imagining his devastating scorn. He would sneer and call them dumb sheep-fuckers or worse; she also worried he would think that she would no longer be his friend.

They probably should not even be friends now, she knew that even if he didn't; he was too far above them and people would say she had ideas above her station. People would think and say terrible things because he was the son of the master and because he was disfigured and thought cursed and because she was a shepherd's daughter from his father's land. It wasn't fair but people and life were seldom fair unless you were handsome and rich like Lannisters.

"Piss on that," she sobbed into her milk pail.

She had tried to be distant to him today but then she had learned the horrible truth about the Mountain. So she pulled weeds in the garden, ripping them out with ferocity and wishing each one were big, ugly Gregor's head, arms and legs. Then she stood and wiped her hands on her old apron, and went inside to soak the barley.

She sat desolate in her mother's chair and her kitten came and jumped in her lap, purring for pats.

How could she tell him that she could not see or talk to him anymore? She knew his terrible secret and his fear and he trusted her. He would think that she was a coward and that she had betrayed him. He would _hate_ her. He was her best friend.

"Oh, kitten," she sobbed again, "Brave Sandor."


	4. Chapter 4

It had rained steadily for nearly a fortnight and they came back from the hills with their cloaks, clothing and even their smallclothes sodden. They went barefoot everywhere except in the cottage when they all wore the socks Beth had knit with the last batch of spun wool, to try and warm their feet.

The rain was an ill omen, the smallfolk said: the traitor Robert Baratheon had won his battle at Summerhall and then left the Stormlands for the Riverlands to join with the Tully and Stark forces against the King. The Westerlands were safe from attack because of the hills and mountains and the pass at the Golden Tooth, but unless the rebels were defeated soon, the Lannister Lord would have to answer the King's summons. Tywin Lannister had been Hand of the King for over twenty years but it was said there was bad blood between Lord Tywin and King Aerys Targaryen. Most everyone worried that the banners would be called and men and boys would have to go and fight, leaving the women and the lands to neglect and banditry. All because Prince Rheagar carried off a Northern noblewoman, they said, a maid and daughter of a lord who was Warden of the North, and because King Aerys had killed her father and brother for protesting her abduction. Sandor said the Prince was dumb.

"Men marching off to die for a maidenhead," he'd scoffed. "Lord Tywin's got the right of it. Wars are fought for land, for power and might, not for girls."

"What about honor?" she countered. "They say the lady was noble and betrothed to another, this lord of the Stormlands. Should he just surrender her to be, well, used by the Prince?" She said the last part in a hushed voice.

"That's why the Prince is _dumb_," he told her loudly and impatiently. "His palace is probably full of wenches; he should have just taken one and been done with it."

"Sandor!" she cried, shocked. "You wouldn't do that at the Keep?" she asked tentatively.

He looked at her sharply and furrowed his brow. "Not me," he said finally in his scratchy voice, looking away.

"Oh." Her stomach clenched at every mention of Gregor.

"That's what wenches are for;" he said dismissively, "anyway my father's steward engages mostly old women now to replace the ones who...who leave. But ravens have started coming, fat lords offering their daughters for marriage. Stupid, puffed-up fuckers, what do they know?" he sneered angrily. "Second or third daughters because we are only one generation landed," he laughed shortly now. "Near-commons," he jested and nudged her foot with his boot.

They sat side by side on the rocky ledge overlooking the flock and the valley. He held his big, dark cloak over both their heads as it drizzled steadily. He'd brought fruit and crumbled cakes tied up in a linen napkin in his sack. He had to tell Beth what kind of fruit because her family only bought apples and ate what berries Beth could pick ever since the master Clegane ruled that commons could pick the wild berries from his lands but not sell them. Punishment was forfeiture of any profit and flogging. She also had never had a cream cake and greedily stuffed one in her mouth and licked her lips and fingers as Sandor laughed his scornful laugh at her. Kitten would love the cream but she did not dare bring one back to the cottage for him; she was even thankful for the rain since no one would be out and see them sitting together. She had felt guilty when he mentioned marriage offers but no one had told her that she was betrothed yet so she decided that she was not. Maybe they hadn't liked her, or thought her too small to have sons.

She'd grown a little though: her mother had helped her to move the acorn buttons on her dress so there was more room in front and her boots were hurting her feet so even when the rain finally stopped she kept on going barefoot. She was walking barefoot near the road with a pail of berries on a warm day when she heard a horse behind her; she quickly ducked behind a big fallen tree and hid as Sandor had told her to do.

The horse slowed to a walk. "It wasn't _me_ you were supposed to hide from," he called in his harsh voice.

"Oh!" She came out into the road. "But if I'd waited, it might have been someone else and too late to hide."

He shook his head at her. He looked very impressive, she thought, sitting tall on his big horse in his dark doublet with a dog's head stitched on the front. He could have been a young lord…but for his face; no one would ever forgive him his face. She sighed.

"What's wrong?" he demanded to know.

"You didn't lie; you do know about horses." She made it sound like she was envious and then smiled at him.

He lifted his head almost proudly. "I told you I did; and I never lie, Beth. Have you been on a horse?"

She shook her head and waited for his scornful words.

"Can you climb that stump?"

She turned and walked back to the fallen tree's stump. She had to push herself up but she managed.

He walked his horse over. "Now get on. Leave the pail. Give me your hand. Put your leg over. Easy, Warrior," he said to the horse who whickered and snorted and tried to move away.

She sat behind him and put her hands on his waist. "It's so high up," she told him.

"So if you fall, you'll die; you better hang on then," he told her roughly. He took her hands and crossed her arms in front of him. "And don't let go; or my father will have to pay your parents when you're killed," he half-muttered.

He turned the horse towards the field and touched his heels to its flanks. It walked at first and Beth felt the powerful strength of the courser beneath her and the rippling of its muscles as it moved. She had to lean her head to look around Sandor and see where they were going. He clucked and spurred the horse and it began to trot, making her bounce and hang on even tighter. He turned it to a hill and spurred it again and the horse cantered up easily. Beth's hair flew behind her and though she was scared of falling she also felt excited to be moving so fast. Sandor turned the horse again at a big rock and crossed two more hills and a stream, jumping its narrow width. Beth squealed as the horse took off and landed hard on the opposite side. She started to worry that they were going too far, and that her family might start to wonder where she had gone. Finally they slowed as they approached a wooded grove, ducking under the branches as the horse walked into the suddenly dense shade. Finally he reigned to a stop.

"That was so wonderful," she told him breathlessly. "Thank you, Sandor; I've never gone so far so fast." She waited for him to answer.

Finally he looked down over his shoulder at her. "I could run off with you now, you know," he told her, his voice low and gruff, "like the Northern maid. We could live in caves, and I could hunt and chop wood for fires and have you all to myself. I'd keep you safe and warm; we wouldn't go hungry. And no one would ever find us."

Beth watched him warily now. She hoped he was joking, like he always did, just to try and scare her. But he wasn't making faces or sneering, so she didn't know what to say back to him.

He faced forward again and snorted a short mocking laugh. "But you wouldn't like that, would you? You'd be scared like always and probably cry. And you believe in honor." He turned back to sneer at her now.

"So do you." Her voice sounded small and far away, even to her.

He looked down at her a moment longer, then turned the horse around.

He rode the horse faster on the way back. Beth hung on tight but worried what he would say or do when they stopped. When she stepped carefully back onto the stump, he swung his leg over his courser and dropped to the ground. He reached up to take her by the waist and lowered her down in front of him. She had to put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself but pulled them away once her feet were on the ground. He still held her waist.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her quietly. "Put them back." He was looking down and seemed contrite now.

She nervously put her hands back on him. She felt him lower his forehead to hers.

"Beth…" he whispered and swallowed hard. "I…we can't be friends anymore. Gregor's coming back, and it wouldn't be safe for you. I should never have had a friend, just like I can't have a dog. He kills everything I...You understand, don't you, Beth? You won't hate me?"

She shook her head, looking at the dog emblem on his chest. Her throat felt terribly tight and her heart felt like something sharp had cut it. His hands tightened around her waist; then one hand let go. He took a handful of her hair and ran it through his fingers down to the ends.

"You have sun on your hair," he whispered hoarsely. "I heard a singer sing about that once; I thought he was a fucking fool. Now I'm a fucking fool too." He was still stroking her hair.

"I could never hate you, Sandor." Her voice was whispery-shaking and she thought she would cry. She felt his lips brush her forehead and she caught her breath sharply. Beth looked up at him, right into his eyes: grey, like the rain clouds over the valley; and piercing like she imagined an eagle's or a shadowcat's would be.

He bent his head down again. "Am I scaring you?"

"No," she answered but no sound came out.

The first kiss was clumsy, the second kiss they bumped noses and blinked shyly at each other; the third time he put his lips on hers gently and held them there as he put both arms around her and she gave a shivery sigh. He pulled away from her.

"Go now," he ordered her brusquely, looking at the ground, "Take your pail. And don't you look back at me. Just forget me." His brow was furrowed and he was frowning sternly but she could see his chest heaving under the stitched dog.

"I won't. I'll miss you. I'll think about you every day, Sandor." Her tears were welling up now, making her voice squeak.

He shook his head stubbornly, still looking down. "Don't lie; you promised me."

"I'm not lying." She didn't want to leave but she knew she had to. "Good-bye, Sandor."

Beth turned away and crossed the road and didn't look back. Instead she broke into a run, feeling her tears on her cheeks and the bottom of her feet burn from hitting the ground so hard. The pail rattled and smacked against her leg. But she wouldn't stop; if she stopped she would look back or run back and let him take her away.

_Warrior give him courage. Smith give him strength. Mother protect him. Oh, please, Mother protect him._

She prayed so hard that she forgot to slow down and dry her eyes before running into the yard. Her brother sat in the doorway, waiting.

"What happened to you?" he asked bluntly.

She waited to catch her breath. "I-I went too far. I heard a noise in the brush. I thought it was a wild animal. I got scared and ran. I ran so fast." Her breath came in hard pants. "I'm-I'm _so_ scared," she sobbed.

He looked at her hard. "You should be. Stay out of the road, Beth. That Mountain's come back; and you can call him _Ser_ Mountain now."


	5. Chapter 5

Many days after Ser Gregor returned to his father's keep, Beth's brother returned from the village with sausages, apples and news of a host gathering for a hunt to celebrate the elder son's knighthood.

"Lannisters even," he nodded knowingly. "Some went to Lannisport for some family wedding, including Lord Tywin himself and that daughter of his, the one said to be so beautiful but still unmarried at seven or eight and ten. What's she waiting for then, the babe Aegon to grow up so she has another chance to be queen? " Prince Rhaegar's lady wife had birthed a son and heir that year and the Queen herself was rumored to be again with child. "Maybe they'll take pity and betroth her to me since we're of an age. You know how much you want me to marry, Papa," he laughed as his father cuffed him lightly.

"So some of their retainers came out for the hunt, with their red cloaks and their golden lions: great groups of men and horses and hounds," he went on to describe them. "Best you stay away from the roads and village for now," he said to Beth over the supper table, "now with so many strangers about."

"Best you not go out at all, girl," her father said sourly. "Stay here. Keep your mind on your work."

Beth nodded obediently and went back to looking down at her meal, mostly uneaten. She had done little but work and sleep of late but she was clumsy: dropping and misplacing and forgetting things. She tipped over the milk pail, losing near half the milk one morning; then she forgot to put onions in the stew and another time chopped carrots without washing off the dirt from the garden first. Her mother called her shiftless and half-heartedly smacked her bottom which she didn't think was fair; she was trying, but nothing seemed fair now so it didn't really matter. She took her punishment and continued as if nothing had happened. She went to bed listless and woke up the same way.

"Maybe you moon's blood is finally upon you," her mother told her when they were alone, sounding both hopeful and impatient. But it wasn't.

From her lonely perch on the hill over the flock, she could see the men riding out and hear the thunder of their horses' hooves and the baying of hunting dogs. She could not think of dogs without seeing the dog's head stitched on Sandor's doublet when she said goodbye to him near the road. Good to her word, she thought about him every day, but he was not there for her to tell him that she hadn't lied to him.

The next night she woke to the same thunder of horses and barking and shouts in the pitch dark. It was a moonless night. She sat up when she heard the window latch opened and saw the vague outline of her brother in his rough-spun nightshirt.

"Torches," he said ominously, "lots of them and heading toward the village, or the Keep." He watched a while longer and Beth lay down again. Whatever was happening would soon be known by everyone: people found things out eventually, she thought as she drifted back to sleep.

The next morning Beth stirred the porridge over the fire as her father, mother and brother talked out in the yard. It was a dull day and looked to rain. She heard them exclaim and whisper in turn but didn't pay any mind to what they were talking about. Then they walked in together and her mother closed the door and stood with her back to it while her father and brother stood side by side facing her.

"It's almost ready," she told them, though she did not think they were looking so grim because of the porridge.

Her father threw something on the table. Beth recognized the braided whip he carried when herding sheep. She looked up at him apprehensively.

"I've never used that on you, girl; maybe I should have but I never saw the need. Better hope I don't now."

She shook her head, uncomprehending.

"You've been seeing that burned boy around these parts, haven't you? And before you think to lie, your brother's seen the two of you and didn't think no harm'd come of it but he thinks better now and told his Papa, as you should have the first time he came sniffing around you like a dog."

She looked to her brother and back to her father. She was frightened that anyone should know, that maybe Gregor might find out if they went to the master of the Keep to complain; but she could not lie to her own father. "Yes, Papa, I talked to him. He would come and sit sometimes while I was minding the flock. It was him that left me the kitten in the basket. He saw the Mountain kill my grey kitty."

"And what else did he give you, girl? Was he taking a lord's liberties with you? Are you spoiled even before you flowered?" He demanded to know now.

Beth gasped and her eyes widened and she shook her head quickly. "No, Papa! He _neve_r! I swear it! I'm as good a maid as the day I was born!" She had heard the expression before.

He picked up the whip and pointed it at her. "You better be telling the truth to me now; I've been talking marriage 'tween you and the sheep shearer's boy to his father and they'll expect a real bedding, not some mummer's farce, girl."

"It will be real, it will be! I promise you, by Maid, Mother and Crone. Mama, please?" she appealed to her mother. Surely her mother would believe her.

Her mother stared her down; then gave up and shook her head. "What were you thinking, talking to that cursed boy, child? You were never the sort to look for trouble nor have ideas above yourself but ever since that day at the road we've had to mind ourselves and here you were all careless like. And when you knew you were to be betrothed."

"We might have had a fair hearing with the old master but not now, now we none of us knows how things'll be at the Keep," her father said darkly.

Her brother spoke up now, as tersely as when she had run home crying. "The old man's dead, Beth. Died hunting, they say: word's spread this far already. That's what all those riders with torches last night were about. Accidents can happen especially when it's nigh dark out. Anyway, it's all the Mountain's now."

Beth was speechless; then her mind raced. Sandor had lost his father; Sandor would now live in his brother's keep and was at his pleasure and his mercy. But the Mountain had no mercy, not for Sandor, not for anyone. Her own father was talking again.

"Aye, the old man was fair and might have made up for his boy's behavior: might've paid your dowry or got you a place with the Silent Sisters; but this one's more like to see you as having brought his brother low. We'll be driven off, if not thrown into cells. All we can do now is pray no one else has seen the two of you besides your own brother. We'll carry on like before but you're not to see him again, do you hear? Or by the Father, I'll drive you into the road myself." He slapped his whip back down on the table and sat down hard on his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

Beth went and kneeled before him. "I'm sorry to give you grief, Papa. I won't see him again, I promise. He already said so too. He didn't want talk either. He's not bad; he's decent and he doesn't want me hurt." It was near as good as the truth, she thought.

He looked back at her, disappointed and sad. "You've always been good 'til now; maybe you still are, girl; and I'm sorry I can't keep you better than I do. But you need to marry and soon. You'll marry the shearer's elder boy after your first flowering, d'you hear me, Beth?"

She nodded dutifully. "Can…can I keep my kitten?"

Her father looked towards her mother. "Aye, the kitten," he agreed. Her mother went to Beth's pallet and took the fine linen apron off its peg and threw it on the cook fire, poking it down as it flamed up around the hanging pot. Her task done, she held out the big spoon to her daughter.

"Serve up the porridge, child."

The day of the funeral, Beth was permitted to go to the village with her brother as long as she stayed by him. They met the sheep shearer's boys and the innkeeper's girls and stood outside the inn watching the procession to the sept. The Mountain, dressed in fine clothes and looking impossibly huge and surly, followed his father's body as the new knight of the Keep. Beth felt cold all over and trembled to see him; she feared him even in the crowd and at this distance when he did not even see her. She turned her face away until he passed. Sandor rode behind with some Lannisters who were honored guests: Lord Tywin's brother had come from Lannisport to pay homage to the son of the kennel-master who had once saved his own father's life but the Lord himself had already returned to Casterly Rock after the recent wedding, taking his daughter with him.

"Sent his brother to do his duty," some murmured ungraciously. They forgot that a rebellion was still being waged and that he had a Lord and a Warden's responsibilities.

Beth watched it all silently. The other girls giggled behind their hands at the handsome Lannister knights, and then whispered meanly about Sandor: a waste of a fine mount and finer doublet, they said in asides, and how must the Lannisters feel to have to ride with that cursedly disfigured younger son instead of the new master of the Keep. An old woman behind them grumbled that with a face like his he should join an order so people wouldn't have to look at him. Another agreed, saying maybe then he could make amends to the gods who had seen fit to punish him with fire.

Beth smarted at the unfairness, and clenched her small fists to keep herself from wanting to slap them. She thought he looked even more impressive than when she met him on the road the last time: he seemed already older and was taller and stronger than the balding Lannister knight and all his men. He was solemn and dignified and stared ahead dry-eyed and resolute, ignoring the stares and comments of the crowd, and so she felt proud for him. She could never see him the way the others did, though she cared less how he looked than how he felt. He had not talked much of his father and she wondered if he truly mourned him, the father who had lied to protect his brother, and if he had someone who would comfort him. Her heart ached to hold him like he had held her by the roadside, but she couldn't even tell him she was sorry for his loss. She wanted to let her tears out but saw her brother watching her so she kept her eyes cast down as he passed and lowered into a curtsey like the other girls. She knew he didn't look at her either; she could always feel his gaze. But when she looked up again, she saw some of the Lannister retainers look down from their horses at her with hooded eyes.

"Seems the lions approve your betrothed," one boy nudged the elder shearer's boy. He had the good grace to hush the boy and smile reassuringly at Beth who then looked down modestly again. She thought instead of the ravens that had come to the Keep, and wondered if any of the marriage offers made had been to Sandor. Maybe he would marry a well-born girl, a second or third daughter and enter into her father's service and leave Gregor. She closed her eyes and prayed for some way for him to escape the Keep other than hiding in caves and living like a savage when the true savage was really his brother, now his father's heir.

The innkeeper's girls invited her in for cider and the young men for ale. She turned to follow the rest but then she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She jumped. It was her brother.

"Chores," he said simply.

Days had passed and Beth lay on her pallet in the dimness staring up at the pattern shafts of moonlight made on the wood beam in the ceiling of the cottage. Her brother sighed from the other side of the room. Their parents slept in the loft above them.

"If wish you'd go to sleep," he said. "I can _feel_ you fretting over here."

"I am asleep," she answered vacantly.

"He's not so bad, you know." He meant the shearer's son. "There's lots worse around here; he's not a drinker or a bully, and he's got a trade. I'm friends with his brother, so I know."

_I should never have had a friend._

"Nice to have a friend," she whispered without rancor.

"Nice to be high-born and live in a keep and have a maester-at-arms to train you good. And have your own mount and armor and steel," he said enviously. "Well, he's gone. Just forget him."

_Just forget me._

"Left with the Lannisters for the Rock straight after the burial, they're saying," he continued when she did not answer. "Offered his sword and went into service quick as you please." His voice trailed off. She heard him shift around and sigh. "Think I never dreamed to be a knight like all boys do? But I'm a shepherd. Lots want different than what they're born to. But we don't get it. So we do what we got to, 'cause we got to live. You understand that, don't you?"

_You understand, don't you, Beth?_

Beth was quiet a moment. Sandor was gone; he had left and escaped the Keep and the Mountain like she had hoped but also the hills and streams and the wooded grove and her. Even though he told her he never wanted to be a knight, it wasn't really a lie to change your mind. She was sure he would make a fine knight. He would keep his vows and act honorably. He'd never lie. He'd wear the red cloak and the lion sigil instead of his favorite dogs and do what he would have to do, just like she would do, but they would both be safe now and maybe happy. She would never see him again.

"Yes," she whispered, turning to face the wall. "I understand."


	6. Chapter 6

"He's dead!"

Beth and her mother lifted their heads from their needlework: her mother was patching holes in her brother's breeches while she knit a scarf for cold mornings in the hills. The supper simmered in a pot over the cook fire. They looked at each other before getting up and going to the window.

"HE'S DEAD!"

Her brother was running into the yard. He stopped suddenly and dropped the sac he was carrying from the market and bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked up and saw them.

"He's dead," he repeated.

"Who's dead, lad?" his mother asked.

Beth clutched at her knitting. _The Mountain_, she prayed; _let him be dead, and then Sandor can come back._

"The Prince!" her brother shouted. "Prince Rhaegar is dead! The traitor Robert killed him: single combat on the Trident, they're saying; and Barristan the Bold cut down too, with no word if he lives or not. They've called the banners: Lord Tywin's going to march to King's Landing to defend the King and his heirs. It's war for all for us now."

"Run tell you father, child," Beth's mother told her. "Tell him I'll send your brother up once he's fed."

Beth turned and ran uphill to her father. He had to spend more time there when they sent her brother to the village since Beth could no longer go on her own. The night of his father's burial, the Mountains' men had gotten drunk in the village, starting fights and breaking chairs and a door at the inn. When the innkeeper had appealed to the new master, he was thrown a scattering of coppers and silvers and told to mind his place and keep his own peace. Since then they had become more unruly, helping themselves to things in the market and being insolent to women. The old castellan had trouble looking folks in the eye. And then there were the whispered rumors that the father's death was no accident, making the Mountain a kinslayer. Beth's stomach clenched with each new story, her fear for Sandor and herself was now fear for everyone near Clegane's Keep.

Meanwhile the host was gathering and the Mountain and his retinue prepared to ride and meet the Lannister forces on the Goldroad. Beth went to the hills so her brother could go to the village again. Hours passed and night feel and still he did not return. The next morning the sheep shearer rode into their yard on a dappled stot, looking as grey and haggard as his mount. He told Beth's father that, as the Mountain and his men left the Keep, they had rounded up young men and boys who happened to be in the village to march with them as foot soldiers and bearers: the first to resist had been run through and so the others had gone submissively. Both of his sons and their own son had been taken, he told them. The man was so distraught that he recounted in front of Beth and her mother how the Mountain had also taken one of the innkeeper's daughters who had been standing outside, slapping her so hard with his mailed glove when she cried that blood had poured from her mouth. His men had laughed and the host rode off from the village. Beth was quickly sent back into the cottage.

Beth's parents despaired and wept; they wondered how they would manage the shepherding and cottage without their son. Beth promised to help and was good to her word. Remembering, always remembering Sandor, she found a big fallen branch that she fashioned into a staff and went farther into the hills than she had before to find new grass for the sheep to graze, just as he used to go exploring. She took to wearing her brother's breeches and cap so no one could tell she was a girl. She learned to sharpen a knife on a whetstone and tucked one into her belt. They all did more work and felt closer though they spoke less. Beth never complained or shirked even when her moon's blood finally came and her insides were dull with pain. Despite her best efforts, sheep were lost and they lived with less and her parents grew thin and strained.

When they did go to the village, they stopped at the sept and lit candles to the Mother and the Warrior to protect Beth's brother. She also secretly prayed for Sandor who would have ridden out with the Lannister host from Casterly Rock. The sheep shearer's wife saw Beth and smiled faintly, so Beth prayed for her betrothed too and they all sat together in the sept with the innkeeper's wife and youngest daughter.

After many turns, word came from Lannisport: the King was dead and King's Landing was sacked. Robert Baratheon, the traitor and usurper, sat on the Iron throne. They were shocked to learn that Lord Tywin had bent the knee; they believed he had gone to the capital to defend the King. Northern forces had broken away and gone south to lift the siege at Storm's End and thence to Dorne, only to find the abducted Northern maid dying. Lord Stannis Baratheon sailed to Dragonstone only to find the Queen had died in childbed and her younger children had been taken to exile in the Free Cities. Princess Elia and her children were also dead and so the Targaryen dynasty that had conquered and united and ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly three hundred years was at an end. The Dragons had fallen to the fury of the Stag. Though the Westerlands had been spared, they were still devastated, and wanted their men and their sons and brothers to return. Before the second turn of the moon, Beth's brother and his friend, the shearer's younger son, walked into their yard. The eldest boy was dead, they told Beth and her father, and they exchanged sympathies. Beth was not sure if she was sorry for him or he was sorry for her so she asked instead for word of the innkeeper's elder daughter. They looked at each other and looked at the ground and they shook their heads.

Beth's brother said he was glad to be home and fell into his routine again but he seemed distant and sometimes dazed. One evening when he came to take her place in the hills, she sat and stayed with him.

"Are you…was it…it was a victory, wasn't it? Lord Tywin's host took the city."

Her brother looked strangely ill. "It was a slaughter, Beth: people of all kinds were butchered…" He closed his eyes. "They told us we were to _save_ the King, not murder his heirs. They presented King Robert with the bodies of Rhaegar's wife and children. They say he smiled, Beth." He looked around even though they were far into the hills. "It was the Mountain, Beth: killed the baby prince and his mother, and him a knight and all…we're not supposed to say 'cause he's Lord Tywin's bannerman. You can _neve_r tell."

_He's not just mean, Beth; he's a killer._

She looked at him now. "Tell me, was he there?"

"The Mountain? I just said…"

"No," she said quietly, "not him."

He stared reproachfully at her; then shrugged. "Probably. It was a great host, Beth." But when he saw her keep looking at him, he admitted: "We were supposed to watch for him; the Mountain's men knew we would recognize him. I didn't see him 'cause…I didn't want to, Beth."

Beth smiled gently at him, and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm so happy you're home," she told him now.

"He wants to marry you, Beth: my friend." He turned to look at her now as she raised her head from his shoulder. "He's always liked you; more than his brother even: it ate him up you were going to be his goodsister and not his wife. He's thinks you're sweet," he told her, embarrassed, "and…dainty."

Beth looked down at her breeches and worn boots and her gloves with the fingertips cut off, holding her staff.

"Well," she replied now, "he's a _fucking fool_." She could not help smiling at her brother's shock.

They both laughed now, laughed until they bent over double and tears rolled down their cheeks and their sides ached from it. Sheep bleated as if laughing along with them.

Beth stood still as the innkeeper's younger daughter laced her bodice. She and her mother had invited Beth to use her room to change before her wedding so she would not have to walk on the country road in her dress. She looked into the girl's looking glass as she brushed her hair and wondered when she had changed so much. There was no looking glass at the cottage.

"You look so pretty for your wedding," the girl gushed happily.

Pretty, she thought; Sandor had called her that and so she wondered what he had seen. She was not pert and buxom like the innkeeper's daughter, with her round apple face and her riot of dark curls. Beth's hair was light brown and golden hued, like her eyes, and it fell gleaming straight down her back and around her shoulders when left unbraided. Her face was fairer and thinner and had faint hollows under her cheeks and her nose was straight and thin while her mouth was wide and full, unlike the tiny pucker of the innkeeper's girl. She had grown a little taller and filled out since her flowering but she did not bounce and wobble and strain the bodice of her dress like her new friend. Perhaps that what was her betrothed meant by dainty, she thought curiously.

"We can be friends now you'll live in the village," she prompted Beth hopefully. Then she glanced furtively about the room she'd shared with her lost sister.

Beth smiled then. "I would like to have a friend," she told her.

Her brother had helped pay some of her dowry sheep since he had confessed to taking gold dragons off dead knights during the sack of King's Landing; he'd given some of the gold and all the silver and coppers to the Mountain's men and so they had lazily trusted him and not made him turn out his pockets and empty his boots. He wanted to have his own wife soon.

"You're doing the best thing," he'd murmured to her as they left the inn, and squeezed her hand tightly.

Beth was a good wife. She was used to working hard and not complaining, and was frugal, having lived with less. Her husband was kind and never struck her; he talked to her but did not expect her to have thoughts of her own. A smile and a nod sufficed. He was clumsy and eager at their bedding and stayed that way: huffing and puffing over her with a far-away, eyes-half-closed smile that she found silly and endearing. She was soon with child and his parents were pleased, less so when she birthed a daughter. She lost her next babe when she fell from a chair reaching for a stone jar on a high shelf, and while her husband was clumsily tender and worried, her goodmother told her to hurry and get back on her feet as they had no time to nurse an invalid.

At the Keep, there was no babe: the Mountain had wed in the same turn as she had to a pretty, well-born girl with a soft smile and kind ways. Soon she looked wan and her smiles were forced, then they did not appear at all and finally neither did she. It was whispered the Mountain ravished her mercilessly; then beat her when she got her moon's blood, so violently did he want his own son. He was said to rage that without an heir, the Keep and its lands would pass to his brother; and he would tear it down stone by stone and lay waste to the village and valleys first.

Beth stood holding her baby daughter and talking to the innkeeper's girl one afternoon when she heard a man remark: "Fuck me, Ser: you should take a buggering commons to wife, see they breed like bloody rabbits."

"YOU," his deep voice boomed at her, "YOU GAVE YOUR MAN A SON?"

The Mountain loomed over her and her babe as he had years ago by the road when she held her grey kitten and for a terrifying moment she felt like that girl again, but she looked up and spoke clearly: "No, Ser: a daughter."

He growled a throaty deep grunt and shouted: "ANOTHER USELESS FEMALE!" He turned and struck his own man fiercely. "AND YOU'D HAVE ME TAKE A LOW-BORN WIFE FOR THAT!" He stomped to his destrier and mounted, riding off without looking back at the man spitting up blood and teeth in the road.

"You were so brave," the innkeeper's daughter whispered, squeezing her arm.

Beth finally exhaled. "Would you hold her, please?" she asked shakily, holding out her daughter, "I need the privy."

"The brother will have it all, mark my words," the innkeeper told them in a hushed voice, afraid to be overheard but hating the man. "The Seven won't let the Mountain go unpunished for all he's done. No one in that Keep died from anything but murder or grief." He nodded knowingly. They'd never learned what happened to his eldest girl; if anyone knew they hadn't the heart to tell him.

The brother, Beth smiled sadly: no longer the cursed child or the burned boy. Either they'd forgotten his face or realized it hadn't mattered after all. She kissed her daughter's forehead and held her close.

"Oh, my sweet kitten," she told her, "some things come too late."


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue

Kitten was now a sleek black cat and fierce mouser but still jumped in her lap for pats when she visited the cottage. He preferred her to the babies that wailed and the toddler who pulled his tail. Her father had hoped his son would take a fertile wife and he had: her goodsister had birthed one robust son and now twin boys and the cottage was full and noisy to distraction. Beth had brought her own daughter who was walking and wanting to play with her cousin. Finally she left on the road back to the village; her daughter straddling her hip and holding a slice of apple in her fat little fist.

Half-way to the village she heard horses and moved aide. She held her breath when she saw their red Lannister cloaks and looked to see if she could hide but she realized she could not hope to run with her swelling belly and her daughter in her arms. The rider leading the way reined his horse and smirked down at her.

"Look, a pretty one finally: I could use a quick rest from all this hard riding."

Another circled behind her and grunted. "I wouldn't mind riding this one even harder."

Beth held her daughter tightly and looked at the ground, desperately wondering if a simple appeal to their honor would have any affect, but if the Mountain was what passed for a knight then it wasn't like to get her mercy, only laughter. But then none of them moved and they had fallen silent; she now heard a single horse walking towards her.

"Leave her be," the voice said gruffly.

Beth's heart caught in her throat, and she was so overwhelmed that she could not look up at him yet. She felt herself tremble.

"I don't take orders from a _dog_," one challenged.

"She has a babe in her arms and another in her belly," he told them in his hoarse voice, now deeper and scratchier, "or have you forgotten your vows…_Ser_?" He drew out the last word insultingly.

"If you think you know so much about knightly vows, why don't you take them yourself?"

"I spit on your vows. Now turn you horse back on the road."

Beth was slowly looking up now but the red-cloaked knight was between her and Sandor. When the knight did not turn his horse, he shifted in his saddle and finally the man turned. She could see he had put his hand on his swordhilt. She was looking up at him now: sitting astride a dark courser in plain armor and a dark cloak. He was even bigger and stronger with wide powerful shoulders and a thick neck, and a dark shadow of stubble on the unscarred side of his face. His hair was longer and his face intensely fierce, his grey eyes narrowed like a hawk or wolf about to snatch its prey. If she had not known they were of an age, she would have thought he was older. If she had not known him at all, he would have frightened her. He showed no signs of knowing her but she thought he might be protecting her still.

"I-I thank you," she said softly.

"He spits on your thanks, and don't call him ser," one knight said, "or he'll use that sword on you, babes or not," he laughed.

"She's looking at you like you're King Robert himself," another laughed. "That's the Hound, woman, not a knight or a king."

"Ride on ahead," he ordered them now, "I'll see her safe from you lot," he looked down at her again, his expression harsh and inscrutable.

"Are you sure this is the way to King's Landing?" One sounded doubtful.

"It leads to the Goldroad," he snarled impatiently; "if you'd rather take the mountain passes through the Tooth just to end up in the Riverlands then by all means fuck off and leave the rest of us to arrive a fortnight earlier and make yourself look like an ass…sooner than expected."

Their host moved forward and Sandor turned his horse in the direction of the village. Beth stepped back into the road and walked alongside him, her heart thumping. She suddenly found herself at a loss for words.

"I'm grateful for your help," she managed and felt silly: it sounded so formal.

"Never learned to stay out of the road," he rasped dismissively, still looking ahead.

"You're riding for King's Landing?" She tried again; it had been so long it was hard to know where to begin.

He snorted. "Aye, going to guard the prince; he and his mother are half-Lannister."

"The Prince? He's new-born almost, not even a year old. Who would harm a babe in the cradle?" Then she remembered Prince Aegon and how they said his brains were dashed out…like her grey kitten's.

He glanced at her with incredulous scorn; of course she knew who would murder a babe and so did he. Now he stared down and looked her over in a way that would have been insolent from a stranger. "I see your shepherd tends you as much as his sheep," he sneered. But it was not the same sneer: it was feral and bared his teeth, liked a wild animal.

"He's a shearer," she said quietly; he had always scorned her marriage prospects.

"One of the boys from the end of the village road?" he asked accusingly. His horse kept plodding forward and she kept walking alongside.

"Yes. The eldest didn't return from the Rebellion; I married the younger son." He was no longer looking down at her. "You fought in the Rebellion?" she asked when he didn't reply.

He looked down at her sharply. "I fought, and I killed; only I don't pretend it's noble," he growled. "I'm a dog: I'm loyal, I don't lie and I would kill and die for my master."

She swallowed hard at his blunt talk of killing, it sounded cruel. She didn't want him to be like… "Is that why they call you a hound?" her voice seemed to be getting fainter.

"Better a hound than a sheep," he scoffed nastily. He sneered again: "I made six of the eight, too." It sounded like a boast.

_Six of eighty-two?_ "I-I don't…" She was going to say she did not understand but he interrupted scornfully.

"You don't know what that means," he rasped, like she knew nothing. "Well, you're not the only one who's had a life to live."

He stopped his horse then. She looked up at him, ready to ask him what he had done, where he had been and all he had seen and what he had been thinking: she wanted to know everything and maybe he would talk to her like they were friends again. But he was looking in the distance and she realized he could see the tower of the Keep. His expression changed, and for a moment he looked almost like the wild-eyed frightened boy he once had been when she realized Gregor had burned him; then it changed again to a look so dark and intensely malevolent that it could only be described as murderous. Beth was frightened now, of him and for him. He turned his horse around and she realized he was leaving her. _No, not yet. _

"I lit candles for you in the sept," she began almost desperately, wanting him to stay "I thought about you, like I said I would…"

He laughed now, a harsh and bitter laugh that made her shrink from him. "Even when he was _fucking_ you?"

Beth's face fell, so desolate was she now. She looked up at him speechless.

The Hound leaned down in his saddle: "I told you you were lying," he rasped, baring his teeth again. He walked his horse away from her, singing harshly in his deep, scratchy voice: "_Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done, the Mountain has taken my life, but what does it matter, for all men must die, and I've tasted the sheep shearer's wife."_ He walked his mount a moment longer; then he spurred his horse and rode off to join the host, never looking at her again.

Beth stood in the road, looking back at him this time. She watched until the pain that was wrenching her heart started to lessen its grip.

"I didn't lie," she said.

_I could never hate you, Sandor._

She didn't. She knew his awkward but true kindness had been snuffed out too soon and that Gregor had been the cause: being burned and shunned, losing his family, and having to go into service as a sellsword were the Mountain's doing. And like a mountain, his brother was the dark and constant looming presence that made Sandor range far afield and find places to hide and learn to be wild and feral as he had in the hills and valleys around Clegane's Keep. He was hiding in there, she was sure of it: the lonely, angry-fearful boy who loved to ride out and explore and baited her into arguments and had kissed her so gently and taught her what it was to be brave was safe and warm inside some cave he had made for himself where no one would ever find him. She missed him, she loved him; she could never hate him.

"Ma-ma," her daughter tugged at the neck of her dress now.

Beth turned and lowered her forehead to her babe's and smiled sadly. Her daughter touched her small hand to her face and then looked at her palm, wet with her mother's silent tears.

"Oh, Sandra," she whispered and kissed her brow with that same tenderness she wanted for him, "poor Hound."

FINIS


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